Sir Isumbras at the Ford

by D. K. Broster

But before the English sailors could fire a shot the Blues began to draw off in haste, and from the mainland behind them came the rattle of musketry. The Chouans there were evidently driving out the small Republican garrisons before them—sweeping the coast, in short, as they had undertaken.

"First blood to the Bretons!" said the young officer, with envy in his tones. René felt some consolation in reflecting that La Vireville had probably had a share in that honour.

He began to talk to his companion as the boats resumed their shoreward course. There was time enough indeed for any amount of conversation before either of them set foot on the beach, for the régiment du Dresnay was in the second detachment, and the first had yet to be landed—the regiment of Loyal-Emigrant, mostly veterans from Flanders, and d'Hervilly's own regiment, once Royal-Louis, the numbers of which had been made up, most unwisely, by drafts from the French Republican prisoners in England.

But at last their turn came, and to cries of "Vive le Roi" and the roll of drums du Dresnay's colours were unfurled, and, when they were near enough, many an émigré jumped into the water and waded to land. In du Dresnay many were actually Bretons, and for them the shore in front of them was not only France, but their own sacred corner of France, and several of them, when they reached it, dropped on their knees and kissed the wet sand.

René de Flavigny did not do that, but it was not for want of emotion, for his heart was swelling painfully as he stood at last on the earth that had borne him. "It is France, France!" he said to himself, hardly believing it. And then he was swallowed up in the intense excitement reigning on the beach, where two or three bands of the victorious Chouans had suddenly streamed down upon the regiments of the first detachment, embracing their compatriots and declaring that the whole countryside was theirs—and filling some of the correctly uniformed newcomers with surprise at their strange appearance. Even their officers were little better clad. De Flavigny's eyes lit upon one of these—a French gentleman from Jersey—and beheld a figure attired in a little green vest, short breeches of the same, with bare legs covered with mud, burst shoes, a three months' beard, and a perfect armoury of weapons. But where was Fortuné? Had he been delayed, or met with some mishap?

And the scene became still more confused and further charged with emotions, for there were now arriving not Chouans, but the peaceful inhabitants of the districts round, bringing cattle, and carts loaded with provisions, and all eager to help disembark the ammunition and the cannon, and insisting on carrying through the water, on their shoulders, those émigrés who had not yet reached shore. The noise and tumult were indescribable, and at last, to complete the reception, there advanced on to the beach, singing as they came, a procession of priests preceded by crosses and the banners of their parishes.

It was at these last that the Marquis was gazing, wondering for the first time why the saintly old Bishop of Dol, Monseigneur de Hercé, whom they had brought with them, had not been landed with his ecclesiastics, when a hand fell on his shoulder, and he found himself looking into the face of La Vireville, bronzed and not overclean, his hair falling loose on his shoulders in the Breton manner—differentiated indeed from his men only by his high boots and the white scarf that crossed his breast.

De Flavigny seized him by the wrists. "At last, at last, I am able to thank you, Fortuné!"

But the Chouan wrenched a hand free and put it over the Marquis's mouth.

"Don't speak of that now, as you love me, René! It is past history, and we have more important matters to occupy us. And as for thanks, it is I who owe them to you, as responsible for the child's existence. . . . Is he well?"